


Tension

by Janekfan



Series: TMA prompt fics [17]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Caretaking, Friendship, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Nausea, Pain, boring meeting, little season 2 love, seriously migraines hurt, tea is love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:42:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26457367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan
Summary: Prompt: early s2, where jon is pulling away a bit but the others are concerned about it more than angry, getting a horrific migraine. like "has to leave a team meeting early" horrific. and the others know he wants to be left alone and try to respect it, but eventually they can't just ignore it anymore.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker
Series: TMA prompt fics [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2082912
Comments: 2
Kudos: 195





	Tension

**Author's Note:**

> Oof, migraines. Amiright??? This is based on a personal experience of mine I had in college :D 
> 
> My whole floor thought I was dying and almost dragged me to the hospital.

Looking back, Jon felt incredibly foolish. 

Insisting that he could persist through his day without taking medication for headaches when it resulted in the same outcome every time was the very definition of insanity. 

But, in his flimsy defense, they never started out badly and he got so caught up in his work that by the time he realized what was happening, it was far, far too late to do anything but suffer it out until it ended. Which is how he found himself here, now, nearly completely blind in his right eye while Elias droned on about workplace safety and considering recent events it seemed laughably mundane because yes, back strain from lifting incorrectly certainly outweighed a sentient worm queen trying to devour your assistants. Filled with a desperate desire to rub away the disorientating blind spot, Jon let his focus slip over his employees. 

Tim: bored. Not doing anything to hide it and Jon supposed he was at fault for that too, because he was certainly not paying Elias any mind. 

Sasha: attentive. Most likely thinking of something else entirely while she nodded along to the lecture notes at the appropriate places. 

Martin: engrossed. Despite his suspicions, mostly due to the constant checking in with him about how he was feeling, and really, maybe that was on him because maybe that’s what coworkers did after bravely surviving an onslaught of supernatural entities together. Despite them, he found it. Pleasant? Pleasant. That he would commit the effort to pay such careful attention. 

Jon: quickly realizing this meeting would not be finished by the time the majority of the pain struck him like an oncoming lorry. By his estimations, based on when he first noticed the aura as a funny spot in his peripheral he tried to see _around_ , he had roughly three minutes left. 

Elias continued to endlessly intone while the buzzing lights continued to beat down on him and Jon fought against closing his eyes against them both and their ceaseless stabbing. Two minutes. Probably less and the anxiety which accompanied knowing almost exactly when he was about to be incapacitated rose like a tide and threatened to drag him under. Jon began to shake minutely as the agony manifested like an icepick in the back of his head and spread its grasping, greedy fingers. It took the rest of his very limited restraint to stay silent and keep breathing; shallow and slow, controlled and careful because the nausea was beginning to set in and throwing up during a staff meeting was at the very least, unwise. 

But _oh_ he needed somewhere silent, somewhere he could hide in total darkness and _not move_ until he was able to force himself to sleep, to sleep, to sleep because that was the only way he’d found to make it through to the other side. 

“Jon?” He was standing, blinking unevenly, fighting with himself and his desire to shield his face with both hands. The sound of his name was too loud. So loud and the murmuring of the others in the room created a beautiful sensory nightmare and if they knew his head was about to split open would they really be speaking so loudly? Doubtful. Martin. Martin wouldn’t at least. 

“I’m leaving.” Inadequate, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to elaborate even if in his right mind he wouldn’t. And this wasn’t even the worst of it. 

Each step was a rung up the ladder of agony and he’d taken to trailing a hand against the wall, not trusting his quickly dwindling balance and equilibrium. Rudely, without his express permission, a sob snuck past his clenched teeth and he just had to make it down the stairs, into the archives. Into the dark. The cot was still in document storage and the room would be dim and quiet and he could sleep. Please, let him sleep. Trembling so badly he could barely work the door handle, desperation doing its level best to claw its way through his ribcage, Jon began to panic. Gently, gently, gently, he closed the door behind him, trying to breathe because not breathing would make it worse. The buttons at his throat were so tight, the vest, while comfortable this morning was strangling him and he fought his way out of it like a tiger before all but tearing open his collar. 

Sh. Shh. You’re alright. Shaky. Ill. But alright and you will be alright. Jon collapsed to the cot, sighing at the momentary relief laying down provided but there was still so much light and it was like glass behind his eyes even though they were closed as tightly as he dared close them. The blanket that had been left behind was very contradictory, too much and not nearly enough, and when it brushed the bare skin of his arms it felt like sandpaper but he wanted more of it. More _weight_ so he could relax without feeling as though he was going to drift away because who even knew which way was up anymore? If he hadn’t left the meeting, he could’ve asked. 

Don’t cry. Do. Not. Jonathan Sims. It made it worse, so much worse so he kept his tears trapped behind a false calm. Each time he’d thought he would die from one of these or at the very least prefer it and each time he woke the next day groggy and sore and exhausted, useless for anything except more sleep. He dropped his glasses on the floor, hugged his middle with one arm and threw the other over his face. 

Please, please, please.

 _Just go to sleep._

“I’ll thank the rest of you for continued attention.” Martin nodded absently, worried. Jon didn’t just walk out of meetings. And he’d been so pale, rubbing his temple and wincing. A bad headache? He got those sometimes. 

Didn’t like to be bothered about them either. 

He caught Tim staring at him over the table, done with his paperclip sculpture for now it seemed, and he nodded just slightly toward the door with a questioning look. Martin just shrugged discreetly, now too distracted to pay attention to whatever Elias deemed important enough to waste their time with after an attack on the archives. Needless to say, the rest of the hour passed excruciatingly slow and as soon as they were released, Martin headed straight for Jon’s office, momentarily confused when it was empty. 

“Not there?” Martin shook his head and Tim frowned in concern. “The cot? Maybe he needed a lie down?” 

“You’re probably right.” 

“Still strange.” He nodded in agreement, already headed to check, knocking quietly on the worn wood. 

“Jon?” Martin swore he heard something suspiciously like a whimper before his voice floated through the door.

“Yes, Martin?” It was strange, off, wavery? The tail end of a gasping breath. 

“You just, you left in such a hurry.” He’d give anything to open the door and see for himself. “Are you feeling well?” 

“I’m. Yes, Martin, I’m, I’m alright.” Jon was many things, a good liar was not one of them, but he was the type to lick his wounds alone, preferring not to show any vulnerability and Martin would respect it. “Bit tired.” 

“Okay, I’ll. Check on you in a bit then. Bring some tea.” 

“Yes, alright.” Despite his worry, Martin smiled at the tiny familiar spark of frustration. 

When Martin spoke his voice seemed to echo in the hollows of Jon’s bones, reverberating into his head and only exacerbating the throbbing pain, not even really aware of what he was saying, just trying to get him to go away so he could be as still as possible in silence. The more he moved, the more it felt like his stomach was trying to turn inside out and the fear of moving, of being sick, of causing himself more hurt, made tears sting at the corners of his eyes, made him itch where they slipped down his face. 

If it would just stop for a moment. If he could just fall asleep. Calm down. Stand to have anything against his skin right now. 

He wanted to be alone and not be alone. Wanted Martin or Tim or Sasha to, to, he didn’t know, just wanted. The strange disconnect from his physical body was maddening, confusing, and he wanted so badly for it to please stop. 

When Martin looked up, Sasha was so close to his desk he startled. He hadn’t heard her but she looked worried. 

“I don’t think Jon is feeling very well.” 

“I don’t think so either.” 

“He’s been in there all day.” Tim joined them. “Maybe we should check on him again?” Martin looked at the clock. It had been hours since he’d talked to him and he had yet to reappear. 

“You’re probably right.” This time, it was definitely a hurting sound and Martin decided it was for Jon’s own good to let himself in. He’d only just recovered from Prentiss, what if the stress had made him ill? “Jon?” He was curled into himself on the cot, clothes in disarray, vest discarded and half the blanket piled atop his face. When the door closed, Jon clapped his hand over his ear, the other tangled into his button down so tight Martin was afraid he’d pop the buttons. “You’re shaking.” 

“Mmartin…” the barest exhale, pleading. “S’loud…so...so loud…” 

“Okay, okay, what’s wrong?” He knelt beside him, resting his hand over Jon’s. “How can I help?” 

“Jus’...jus’ need t’sleep.” Shuddering, his breath caught, was released, uneven, fast, gasping. “Can’t.” He decided at that moment that sound should never come from Jon again, not if ever he could help it and the fingers that had been digging into his greying hair were now clutching Martin’s.

“Okay. I’m coming back.” Jon seemed to collapse inward like a star and it was hard to leave him but he’d seen migraines before and it had been hours since what he guessed was the onset. “Tim, do you have any paracetamol?” 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Jon’s not well, of course.” 

“Figures.” 

“This time I really think it _wasn’t_ his fault. These things sometimes come on suddenly.” Tim grumbled, digging through his desk and heading with Martin to the breakroom for some water, waiting while he brewed a strong black tea. 

“He gets a pass. One time, Martin. This one time.” While the tea cooled Martin retrieved a few clothes from the drawer and a bowl of water. 

“He needs quiet. Everything is really overwhelming right now. A lot of input and nowhere for it to go.” 

“You’re the boss, Marto.” With a jaunty salute, Tim followed, staying calm and quiet, kneeling down to Jon’s level before whispering a greeting. “Hey. Gonna get you fixed right up.” 

“Nnng…okay.” 

“Jon? We’re going to help you sit up.” With no refusal forthcoming, Tim and Martin shared a look of alarm before lifting him as though he were made of spun glass and he buried his face in Martin’s soft, well worn jumper. “Good, Jon.” Martin pressed his palm against his forehead and found it cold and a little clammy, his clothes clung slightly with sweat and it seemed like he had trouble coordinating his limbs. 

“Hur’s…” trembling, his muscles spasmed randomly, and Tim had to help hold his hand steady enough for a dose of paracetamol while Martin followed quickly with the bitter tea, washing the taste away with a sip of water. 

“Okay, love. Doing such a good job. Almost done.” More tears. He went to nod, instead ending up with his head hanging, neck too tired to hold it up any longer and Martin eased him back down onto the pillow. “Let me know if this is too much.” He wrung out a flannel and smoothed it over his eyes, pleased when Jon groaned in slight relief. Tim stroked his hair, soft and slow, and together they waited, watched his shivering gradually stop and his breath deepen into sleep. 

Sasha met them outside the door and Martin stepped further down the hall, just in case they were loud enough to wake him. 

“Well?” 

“He’s asleep, bad migraine.” Martin winced in sympathy, “and hopefully he’ll sleep through until morning.” 

“That’s a relief.” Collectively, they agreed. Jon had been under a lot of pressure lately and while he’d never been one to confide in them often even those moments were becoming rare

Jon felt heavy, tired and slow, and when Martin opened the door with a mug of tea in one hand and a plate of toast in the other, he reasoned that he hadn’t dreamt the entirety of the day previous. Which meant he did sit through most of Elias’ dry speech about safety. 

Embarrassing. To have walked out like that. 

“Martin.” The memory of gentle hands and a soft voice made him flush. 

“Jon, how’re you feeling?” 

“Better, uh, much better. Thank you.” Sitting up was only somewhat a chore, the dizziness faded into the background for the most part. The fogginess was expected and would last a few days but for now he accepted the tea graciously, eyed the toast suspiciously, and settled on another round of painkillers and a few mouthfuls until he thought he might be pushing it. “Thank you, Martin.” He’d been in a bad way and at his wit’s end before he and Tim essentially rescued him. Passing back the empty mug and setting the remaining toast aside, Jon decided he deserved a lie in especially considering he was in that fragile inbetween where turning his head too fast would trigger another one. “If you see Tim before me, would you pass on my gratitude?” 

“‘Course I will” Martin retrieved the dishes and turned back before closing the door. “Sleep well, Jon.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Taylor!


End file.
